by Hans Holzer
* * *
The following day, Mrs. Dickey wrote me a note thanking us for coming out. She promised to look into the background of the house somewhat more thoroughly at the Library of Congress.
“I believe I have exhausted the usefulness of the Fairfax County Courthouse records. If I can help you in any way, let me know. I will be happy to pick you up and chauffeur you if Nicole is busy. I believe fully in your work, and I like your approach. You leave behind a string of grateful admirers. Your friend, Lucy.”
I thanked Lucy Dickey and instructed her to be alert to any further manifestations, should they occur. With so large a cast of spectral characters in the house, it was just possible that we had not dislodged all of them. As a matter of fact it was highly likely that we might have overlooked one or the other.
When I returned from Europe I received another letter from her, dated September 25, 1969. Mrs. Dickey wrote: “I have noticed in the past few months a growing sensitivity and psychic development in myself. Things are happening to me I do not quite understand. Nothing further has happened with our ‘friends’ in the house. No news from them at all. The house remains for sale.”
Mrs. Dickey had previously mentioned her intent to sell the house.
But we had not heard the last of ghostly Adam. On December 9, 1969, I had an urgent report from Lucy Dickey. There had been a party at the house for young college-age friends of her daughter. One of the young men had gone upstairs to one of the bathrooms. As he was going about his business he turned to find a man staring at him from behind. Terrified, he rushed downstairs. He had, of course, never been told about the ghost or any details of the specter’s appearance. Nevertheless, he described Adam in every detail, from the white, full-sleeved shirt and black baggy knicker-type pants on to the expression in his eyes. But despite this frightening encounter, there was nothing further to disturb Lucy’s peace in the house: no more uncanny noises, no spectral appearances. Only one thing—she had difficulty selling the house. The more she tried, the less it worked. It was almost as if someone, unseen perhaps, prevented the house from being sold—perhaps because they had come to like Lucy and considered her a channel of expression. To make things worse, her husband was still in part of the house despite the fact that they had obtained a divorce. Lucy was extremely unhappy about the situation, and desired nothing more than to sell the house, although she loved every inch of it.
Time went on, and finally a buyer for the house showed up. Overjoyed, Lucy Dickey advised me of the fact that ownership was soon to pass into other hands. She had already taken an apartment in Washington and was ready to move. Naturally, she had told the new owner, a Mrs. Mary Jane Lightner, all about the ghosts in the house and what the Dickeys and their predecessors had gone through with them. Mrs. Lightner was not a believer in such things as ghostly phenomena, but her curiosity was aroused since, after all, this was now going to be her home. Together the two ladies asked me to send them a good psychic to see whether there was indeed anything left in the house or whether perhaps all was quiet.
I advised them that a medium might very well relive past impressions without this proving the continued presence of a ghost or ghosts. It is sometimes very difficult to distinguish between an imprint from the past and actual living spirit entities.
I sent them John Reeves, a teacher turned medium, with whom I have lately been much impressed. On May 10, 1970, John Reeves went to Washington and saw the two ladies at the house in Vienna. He knew nothing whatsoever about the circumstances or about the ladies, merely that he was to look at an old house and give his impressions.
Immediately upon entering the downstairs of the house, he went to the fireplace and disclosed that there had been a murder and much violence in that area. He then described a woman, thin, with straight hair in back, wearing a long dark gray dress. He felt this was in the 1860s, and that the woman was not the only spirit on the premises. “A man killed his wife’s lover in this passageway,” John Reeves intoned, “and then he hanged himself.” While the two ladies shuddered, the medium continued describing what he felt had happened in the house. “I can see blood drop from his mouth, on both sides of his mouth.”
“How was the man killed?” Lucy wanted to know.
John Reeves pointed at a heavy set of black andirons. “One of these andirons was used to kill,” he explained. “Somehow these events put a curse on this house. There may also be another separate murder in one of the rooms,” he added cheerfully.
Mrs. Lightner had heard quite enough. “Mrs. Dickey must have told you,” she said to the medium. It seemed impossible for John Reeves to come up with practically the same story Ethel Johnson Meyers had come up with a year ago, without some sort of collusion, she thought. Lucy Dickey assured her that there was no such thing. John Reeves knew nothing of either the house or Mrs. Meyers’ and my work in the house. While the ladies shook their heads, Reeves left and went back to New York.
* * *
Were Adam and Lewis one and the same person? We know that Leon was the name of the other man, whose bones presumably still rot in the garden behind the barn. The woman’s name was Emma. Adam—or Lewis, whichever he was—no longer can claim that his secret is all his. Thanks to John Reeves, and of course Ethel Meyers, we know that his problem was one of the oldest problems in the world. Cherchez la femme. A debt of honor had apparently been paid and all was now quiet at Windover down in Vienna, Virginia.
* * *
A short time ago I wanted to visit the White House and make one more attempt to get into the Lincoln Bedroom. There was some indication that I might get permission, and I called upon Lucy Dickey to come along and serve as my medium for the occasion since she already lived in Washington.
“Me? A medium?” she replied, taken aback. “Why, I never thought of myself in that manner!”
I sensed a disturbed feeling in the way she put it. Had I frightened her? Patiently I explained that her psychic experiences at Windover made it plain that she had mediumistic abilities. She didn’t have to be a professional medium to be classified as psychic.
She breathed easier after that, but I couldn’t get her to go with me into the Lincoln Bedroom. Even if I had gotten permission, I am sure Lucy Dickey would have avoided meeting Mr. Lincoln. And who is to blame her? After all, she has had quite enough with Adam, Leo, Emma, Martha, and Morgan.
* 109 The “Presence” on the Second-Floor Landing
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WASHINGTON and Baltimore is a small community called Sykesville. It is a little bit closer to Baltimore than in it is to Washington, and most of the people who live there work in Baltimore. Some don’t work at all. It is not what you might call a poor community but, to the contrary, is one of the last remaining strongholds of the rural hunting set whose main occupation and pride were their farms and minor houses.
Howard Lodge was built there in 1774 by Edward Dorsey. Tradition has it that it was named Howard Lodge when Governor Howard of Maryland stayed in it during the period in which the United States became independent. Tax records seem to indicate that it was owned at one time by relatives of Francis Scott Key, the author of our national anthem. Key himself visited Howard Lodge and carved his name in one of the upstairs window sills, but unfortunately, the windows were later destroyed by storms.
The house consists of two stories and is made of brick imported from England. The attic and roof beams were made by hand from chestnut wood and are held fast by pegs driven their full length. Today’s owners, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Emery, have made some changes, especially in the attic. At one time the attic was two stories high, but it has been divided into storage rooms above the beams and finished rooms below. At the turn of this century dormer windows were installed by a previous owner, a Mrs. Mottu of Baltimore. The oldest part of the house is the thick-walled stone kitchen downstairs. On the ample grounds there is an old smokehouse and a spring house, both dating from the original period when the house was built. Surrounded by tall trees, the estate is truly European in flavor, and
one can very well imagine how previous owners must have felt sitting on their lawn looking out into the rolling hills of Maryland and dreaming of past glory.
The house has been furnished in exquisite taste by its present owners, the Emerys. Mr. Emery is an attorney in Baltimore, and his wife, a descendant of very old French nobility, saw service as a nurse in the late unlamented French-Indochina campaign. The furnishings include period pieces assembled with an eye towards fitting them into the general tone of the house, and French heirlooms brought into the house by Mrs. Emery. There isn’t a piece out of key at Howard Lodge, and the house may well serve as an example to others who would live in eighteenth-century manor houses.
In 1967 I appeared on Baltimore television. Shortly after my appearance I received a letter from Mrs. Emery, in which she asked me to have a look at Howard Lodge and its resident ghosts. It would appear that she had several, and that while they were not malicious or mischievous, they nevertheless bore investigation if only to find out who they were and what they wanted.
* * *
Long before Mrs. Emery had heard of me, she had invited two men, who were aware of the existence of ghosts, to come to the house. They were not private investigators or apprentice ghost-hunters, to be sure—simply two gentlemen interested in the supernatural. Barry and Glenn Hammond of Washington, D.C., coming to the house as friends, reported seeing a gentleman outside looking towards the house. The gentleman in question was not of this world, they hastily explained. They knew all about such personalities since they were accustomed to distinguishing between the flesh-and-blood and the ethereal kind. The Emerys had other guests at the time, so the two gentlemen from Washington were not as much at liberty to speak of the resident ghosts as if they had come alone. While they were wandering about the house in search of other phantoms, Mrs. Emery busied herself with her guests. On leaving, however, the Hammonds happily informed Mrs. Emery that Howard Lodge had not just two ghosts—as the Emerys had surmised—but a total of five. They left it at that and went back to Connecticut Avenue.
Jacqueline Emery was not particularly overtaken with worry. She was born Countess de Beauregard, and as with many old aristocratic families, there had been a family specter and she was quite familiar with it while growing up. The specter, known as the White Lady, apparently can be seen only by members of the de Montrichard family, who happened to be related to Mrs. Emery. No one knows who the White Lady is, but she appears regularly when a member of the family is about to die, very much as an Irish banshee announces the coming of death. There may be a relationship there since so many old French families are also of Celtic origin.
* * *
In 1969 my wife and I met Mrs. Emery’s uncle, the Baron Jean Bergier de Beauregard, who lives with his family it Chateau de Villelouet in the heartland of France. The Baron readily confirmed that many members of the Beaure-gard family have indeed shown the ability of second sight, and that psychic occurrences were not particularly upsetting to any of them. They took it in their stride.
Jacqueline Emery has inherited this particular talent also. She frequently knows what is in the mail or what phone calls are about to be made to her, and she is aware of the future in many small ways, but she takes it as part of her character. Nevertheless, it indicates in all the Beauregards a natural vein of psychic ability, and it is that psychic ability that made the appearances at Howard Lodge possible, in my view.
* * *
Jacqueline Emery herself has more than a casual acquaintance with ESP. When I asked her to recall any incidents of a psychic nature prior to coming to Howard Lodge, she thought for a while and then reported a startling incident that occurred to her in December of 1944, when she was living in Germany.
* * *
For some reason I had gone to a village near Munich with a woman who wanted to buy eggs and chicken and also pick up some apples in the basement of a home she owned and had rented to a family from either Düsseldorf or KöIn. I believe its name was Kaiserbrunn. A Mrs. Schwarz was renting.
Mrs. Kolb, with whom I had come, wanted me to go to the village with her, but for some reason I excused myself and went in quest of Mrs. Schwarz. She was in the dining room, busily writing letters. For some unknown reason I asked her what she was writing. It was odd because, at twenty, I was very shy. She then told me that she was sending farewell letters to her husband and children. She had, I noticed then, in front of her, some pills, which she said were poison. Upon my asking her she unfolded the following story:
She feared that her husband, a university professor, had been killed and their home demolished in a recent bombing of either of the cities I mentioned above. One of her sons was on the French front and hadn’t been heard of for quite a period of time. Two other sons were on the Russian front, and she had no news from them either.
Perhaps worst of all, her daughter Lütte Paschedag, her two small children and their nurse, Schwester Margarethe, had supposedly left Potsdam several days before to come and stay with her and had not been heard from. News had been on the radio of several trains from the direction of Berlin being attacked and many deaths having ensued.
For some unexplained reason, I took her in my arms (I’d never seen her before) and promised her that her daughter, the nurse and the children were very close to Kaiserbrunn, that Hänsel, the one on the French front would be home within a week and stay for Christmas, that Professor Schwarz would call her up during the week, that their home had only been partly damaged, and that the two other sons and the sonin-law would write. One, Wolfgang, would be home for Christmas; the other was a doctor and I didn’t think he could be spared for the holiday. Upon hearing me out, she fainted. She came to and together we burned the pills and letters. There was a knock at the door, it was Lütte, the two children and the nurse. Hänsel came the following week, Wolfgang was home for Christmas. Professor Schwarz called up two days after my visit, and the doctor wrote before Christmas. She was kind enough to send Hänsel to Munich to tell me and invite me to be with them for Christmas, which I did.
* * *
On June 11, 1969, I finally managed to come out to Howard Lodge. Roy Emery picked me up in Baltimore and drove me to his house. Present were not only his wife but their two daughters, both college students. Ariane the elder, is an avid reader of mine and wants to devote herself to psychic studies if all goes well. Proudly, Jacqueline Emery showed me about the house and around the grounds while there was still enough light to see everything. While we were walking I learned further details about Howard Lodge. For one thing, it appeared that Jerome Bonaparte had actually been to the house while he was courting Mrs. Patterson, whom he later married. Not three miles away from Howard Lodge was the estate of the Pattersons, where Napoleon’s brother lived out his life in peace and harmony. All around us was plantation country, and what little was left of the old plantations could still be seen in the area.
“We now have only two hundred acres,” Mrs. Emery explained, “but when we bought the property it was part of five hundred acres, and a hundred years ago it was about seven or eight hundred acres. I imagine that in the beginning it must have been about two thousand acres. That’s what the plantations around here were like.”
Before I went into the matter of the hauntings properly, I wanted to learn as much as possible about the house itself, its background, its structure, and since Mrs. Emery already knew these facts I saw no reason not to discuss them.
* * *
“Was this the plantation house, actually?” I asked.
“It must have been, yes. And it is a rather formal house, which is typical of the English houses, with the hall going all the way through the house, and two rooms deep on either side. The kitchen must have been an addition later, even though it is old.”
“There are four rooms downstairs?”
“There are more than that, but it is two rooms deep on either side of the hall. You see, here you have the living room and the music room, my husband’s library, and the dining room. The dining room h
as been extended going east-west because the hall doesn’t go all the way through to the door; the partition has been removed.”
“And upstairs?”
“Upstairs, there are six bedrooms, and then the attic, which I will show you, was a two-story one. Now we’ve made it a third floor, with still a large attic on top.”
“So it’s actually a three-level house?”
“Well, we have the basement, we have this floor, the second floor, the third floor, and the attic; that’s five stories.”
“How long ago did you come here?”
“It will be ten years in December. We moved in here in 1959. The house had been lived in by hillbillies, and horribly mistreated. The kitchen, through which you came in, had pigs, with litters. This room was used—the various corners were used instead of bathrooms. It had a couch that was full of rats. The rats were so used to people that they didn’t move when you came in. It was full of flies and fleas and rats and mice and smells, and chewing gum on the floors. And Roy and I spent about a month, on our knees, on this very floor, trying to remove all of this. All the walls were covered with six to seven layers of wallpaper, which were removed, and then I painted. Of course the hard part was removing the paper. Each time there had been a draft in the room, due to some hole in the masonry or something, they had put on another layer of wallpaper, thus cutting off, or hiding, the problem, rather than doing anything about it. And so forth!”
“Were they squatters or had they bought it?”
“They had bought it because they had had a farm on what is now Friendship Airport. Needless to tell you, it was a very nice thing to have. They bought this house from a man who worked in a bank in Washington. They bought it cash.”
“But they didn’t know how to live.”
“Oh, no! See, they used a house as you would squeeze a lemon; after there was nothing left, they left and abandoned the house—went to another one. The time had come for them to leave; they had been here seven years, and it was going to pot. The plumbing was completely shot. The heating system was so dangerous that the electrician said, ‘You really must believe in God’; and everything about like that.”